


Too Much Love Will Kill You

by dedicatedfollower467



Series: Whatever This World Can Give to Me [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Books, Courtly Love, Feelings Realization, Idiots in Love, Love, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Star-crossed, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 11:51:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19811740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedicatedfollower467/pseuds/dedicatedfollower467
Summary: In the rubble of a London church, Aziraphale's fingers brush against Crowley's, and he realizes something he had never known before. The revelation floors him.Unfortunately, it doesn't change a blessed thing.





	Too Much Love Will Kill You

**Author's Note:**

> I was originally gonna hold off on posting this fic until I had more "backstory" fic set up in this series, but to hell with it, that's the point of posting in non-chronological order in a fic series instead of chapter-by-chapter, isn't it?
> 
> Title is from "Too Much Love Will Kill You" which is a fantastic song but not a particularly Aziraphale/Crowley one.

The aftermath of the bomb dropping is oddly quiet, for London in the middle of an air raid. Aziraphale stands unscathed in the rubble, feeling wrong-footed and sheepish as Crowley casually cleans his sunglasses with a white handkerchief.

“That was very kind of you,” Aziraphale says, glancing over to his companion, wishing he knew how to convey just how grateful he is that Crowley was _there_ , that he braved consecrated ground and holy symbols and bombs just to save Aziraphale.

Crowley glares and replaces his sunglasses. “Shut up.”

“Well, it was,” Aziraphale says. “No paperwork for a start.”

Crowley had gone out of his way to do something so incredibly - well _sweet_ wasn’t quite the right word, demons weren’t sweet, and neither, for that matter, were Nazis or bombs being dropped on churches but - so incredibly _thoughtful,_ had done itfor Aziraphale even though they hadn’t actually spoken to each other since their little spat about the holy water. While Aziraphale was being hoodwinked by a ring of immoral murderers out to get their hands on some books of prophecy, Crowley was–

“Oh the _books!”_ Aziraphale cries out. “Oh, I forgot _all_ the books.” How could he have been so _stupid_ , so thoughtless and distracted? And they had been _first editions_ , the real ones too, because Captain Montgomery - er, Fraulein Kleinschmidt, apparently - had insisted the bait had to be genuine…

Wretched, Aziraphale looks to the ground in despair. “Oh they’ll all be blown to–”

Crowley walks forward, before Aziraphale really has a chance to work himself up over the missing books, and leans down almost casually. A _crunching_ noise fills the airas he wrenches the handle of the bookbag - the pristine, unmarred bookbag - from the frozen dead grip of a Nazi spy.

He hands the bag to Aziraphale, who takes it in silent bewilderment.

Their fingers brush, for just an instant, skin-to-skin contact as light and incidental as a breeze on a butterfly’s wing. Crowley’s fingers are cold, though Aziraphale knows from experience that that’s perfectly normal for the demon.

What _isn’t_ normal is the sensation that wells up within him in that brief moment. It’s warm and consuming and somehow both familiar and totally new at the same time. Aziraphale’s eyes jump up to meet Crowley’s but before he can place the feeling, Crowley lets go of the bag.

“Little demonic miracle of my own,” Crowley says, sticking hands into his pockets as if it’s not a terribly big deal. “Lift home?” He saunters off, maintaining his completely indifferent air.

Aziraphale looks down at the books in quiet reverence, and oh, he _loves_ Crowley, he does, he could just kiss him right now. Crowley had done this, all this, for _him_ , and hadn’t been satisfied with just saving him from an unpleasant discorporation. No, he’d gone and saved Aziraphale’s books, some of his most precious possessions–

And, quite suddenly, Aziraphale knows what emotion he had sensed from Crowley in that moment.

 _Love_. Crowely _loves_ him.

It had only been unfamiliar because Aziraphale has never had that kind of love directed at him before, and he had never, ever expected to feel it from a demon. Not even from Crowley.

Demons aren’t built to love. According to everything he’s been told, it’s one of the things they lost in the Fall, along with hope and faith. And even if they had retained the capacity for love, Aziraphale cannot imagine a circumstance under which most demons could possibly love anyone. Love requires too much vulnerability, too much sincerity. Love has you give your whole self over to another being, and Hell is not a culture in which anyone would trust each other to safeguard their hearts.

Aziraphale looks in the direction of Crowley’s retreating figure and wonders if that’s why Crowley has kept it hidden from him.

Crowley _loves_ him. Crowley loves _him,_ an angel, one of his hereditary enemies. He goes out of his way to stop Aziraphale from having unpleasant experiences and saves the things that Aziraphale cares about most, even though they have been arguing with each other for almost a century.

And Aziraphale stands in the rubble of a bombed out building, absolutely overwhelmed with feeling because he never expected this. He’s loved Crowley for so, so long and he never, _ever,_ expected to be _loved back_.

Aziraphale had reconciled himself to unrequited longing _millennia_ ago. He had given his heart to one who could not return his love, and he, Aziraphale, would suffer in silence and always guard his beloved. It was one of the reasons he had been so drawn to King Arthur’s knights, to the whole idea of courtly love - it so perfectly encapsulated his own experience. Crowley was his noble lady, for whom he would prove himself, if only given the chance.

“Are you _coming,_ angel, or do you really _want_ to walk home through an air raid at night?”

 _Angel_. The tender way Crowley says it, the glance over his shoulder, the raised eyebrow. It’s sarcastic, but it’s not a mere description of Aziraphale, nor is it a way of distancing himself. It’s - it’s a term of endearment, a pet name, and Aziraphale has known this for a while but he has never before realized just how deep that fountain flows.

Aziraphale wants to drop the bag, to run to Crowley, to take his head in his hands and kiss those soft red lips so gently that the demon melts. He wants to say, “I love you, I love you, and you love me, and you idiot, why did you never _tell_ me?”

But - Heaven would notice.

He realizes, his heart aching, that ultimately, this changes nothing.

Crowley loves him, yes, and that’s more than Aziraphale could ever have hoped for, more than he could have dreamed, so unexpected that the mere taste of that love is like ambrosia for his soul.

But Aziraphale is still an angel, and Crowley is still a demon, and they are both still answerable to their respective sides. Heaven disapproves of its angels engaging in personal, intimate kinds of love - there had been all that business with the Nephilim, back in the day - and they would be appalled that his love is for a demon. The fact that Crowley loves at _all_ would be enough to get him in hot water in Hell, and Aziraphale doesn’t want to even contemplate what kind of punishment loving an _angel_ would net him.

No, this is still very much like courtly love, Aziraphale realizes. Just because his Beloved somehow, impossibly, loves him in return, doesn’t mean that they can ever be together. They still stand on opposing sides.

“Angel?” Crowley turns all the way back to look at Aziraphale, who is still staring at the bookbag as the crushing realization fills him.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale says, tucking the bag under one arm and stepping lightly towards Crowley. “I’m just - having a moment.”

“A mo - a moment?” Crowley says. “It’s the middle of a bloody air raid, angel! You _want_ to get yourself discorporated?”

And there it is again. _Angel_. Affection fills Aziraphale as he gazes at Crowley, who opens the passenger side door to a sleek black car for him. Aziraphale sinks into the plush cushion and Crowley walks around to the driver’s seat, sitting down and turning the ignition with a leisurely air.

He was wrong about one thing. _Something_ does change, for Aziraphale, knowing that Crowley loves him just as much as he loves Crowley.

Because now, every time he looks at the demon, he is filled with deep, unspeakable, bittersweet joy. His Beloved loves him back, and that is more than he deserves. Aziraphale has never been more grateful for anything than he is for this unexpected gift.


End file.
